


Escapist Tendencies

by effystonem



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sherlock AU, Teenlock, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 02:01:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/effystonem/pseuds/effystonem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teenlock AU. John is starting college (which is where them Brits take year 11 and 12) in a new city. His new roommate is eccentric to say the least. ((Johnlock. Probs be explicit in future chapters. Peace.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> This wasn't beta'd or Brit-picked or anything... so... sorry?

John Watson was confident, which wasn’t unusual, that this school would be the perfect place for him. He had always thought he’d be going to Arlington College with the rest of his friends, but when his parents had announced at the end of his 10th grade year that the Watsons would be moving to Kingston Upon Thames, John had realized that he’d have to go to a different college. Just like his father had, John would be going to a sleepaway college that was still only a couple of hours drive from home. The place, Pasterley College, was beautiful: huge, with multiple buildings spread across a green landscape, and buildings inspired by Victorian design and made mostly from intricately carved stone.

Harry was two hours away starting school, John’s parents had said goodbye and started to drive home, and John was left alone to navigate the campus. His parents had gone as far as taking him to the check-in table behind the gates and getting him his schedule and dorm assignment, and all John had to do was find the building his dorm was in and find the dorm itself, which couldn’t be too hard. John, considering his age, was incredibly used to doing things on his own.

He hadn't lived an incredibly long life, but John had matured quickly. He had to, considering he had a little sister to take care of and parents that certainly weren't going to do it. They'd gone above and beyond helping with the move, but John still felt like the parent, talking to the movers and instructing them on where to put what. The move itself didn't bother John so much, really, because even though he'd had lots of friends in his hometown, John made friends easily everywhere he went.

He wandered along the neatly groomed stone pathways cutting through the lush green lawn, looking for the brass plated numbers on the doors of the dorm buildings. He was supposed to be in the B building, but the buildings didn’t seem to go in any logical order. Why didn’t this place hand out maps? By a stroke of luck, John wandered down a path between boys’ building D and girls’ building H and found the B building lurking away near the edge of the grounds, a nice place on the smaller side of things with a big porch and a good expanse of lawn to lay out on. John walked inside, mustering up his confidence, and wandered the corridor looking for 221. The corridor was crowded with other boys, reuniting with their friends, dragging heavy suitcases behind them, getting painfully lost searching for their dorms.The B building’s dorms started at 200, the 100s being in the A building.

221B was shut, unlike many of the other dorms, which were open inviting friends to wander in. John cautiously nudged open the door and walked into the room, lugging his suitcase behind him.

Sitting crosslegged on the bed nearest the window was a lean, dark-haired boy that was bent over a book, scribbling in the margins with a pencil, his dark curls shadowing his eyes. He didn’t look up when John walked in, and only gave a cursory glance upwards when John awkwardly cleared his throat. His bright, keen eyes seemed disinterested as they swept over John.

“Hi,” John said uncomfortably. “John Watson. You must be my roommate?”

“Sherlock Holmes,” the boy said in a deep, drawling voice, still writing in his book.

“You’re in Year Eleven, then?” John asked, trying to make conversation as he threw his suitcase down on the unclaimed bed.

“Unfortunately,” Sherlock replied, “but only by age. If the education system was designed based on intellect then perhaps my parents wouldn’t groan so much about paying for college.”

John laughed uneasily, not sure if he was joking or not. “What are you working on?”

“Nothing of importance,” Sherlock said, annoyed.

“Looks important,” John replied quietly.

“You don’t really want to hear about it,” he snapped.

“Sure I do,” John answered, smiling and sitting down on the bed.

Sherlock looked up, a strange expression flitting across his features. “Really?” He asked uneasily.

John nodded, smiling encouragingly. Sherlock seemed surprised at John's interest, but not unwelcoming.

“Alright, then, I don’t expect you to understand but I’m working on a case my brother needs help with. Mycroft has a minor starting position in the British government and his boss has been working on an anti-terrorism case… strictly confidential. Mycroft turns to me to look for an outside perspective when the department is at a loss.”

“The government comes to you for help?” John asked, amazed.

“Oh, hardly,” Sherlock dismissed. “I don’t get credit for looking at the cases and providing a new angle. Mycroft is technically breaking the law showing this to me so obviously he can’t let his boss know that his 16 year-old brother is looking for loopholes in his terrorism cases.”

“Have you helped solve any of them?” John wondered.

“A couple, yes,” he replied, and then muttered, “although the one about the orange pips hardly counts.”

“That’s amazing,” John said in awe. He hadn’t met many people that had a job outside of college, much less helped the government solve mysteries.

Sherlock looked up and stared at John, eyes innocent and wide. “You think so?”

“Of course,” John replied, shrugging. He got the distinct feeling that people weren’t always so impressed with Sherlock, although he had no idea why.

“That’s not what people usually say,” Sherlock commented quietly, making a note in his book.

“What do people usually say?”

Sherlock paused, looked up at John, and smiled faintly. “Piss off.”

John laughed and even Sherlock chuckled quietly, and things seemed much more opened up. They lapsed into a comfortable silence, and John began to put his clothes in his half of the closet. The other side was already packed full with several clean, pressed uniforms and button-up shirts.

“What classes do you have?” John asked his roommate, hoping Sherlock would be able to help him find his.

“Here,” Sherlock held out his schedule and John took it, quickly scanning for shared classes.

“Brilliant,” John announced. “Biology, psychology, and gym.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said dismissively. “I don’t go to gym, anyway. I skip and go into town most days.”

John wasn’t shocked, really. He hadn’t pigeonholed Sherlock as a big fan of physical activity.

They sat in silence for a moment and John watched Sherlock’s slender, pale hands as they made notes and tapped the end of his ballpoint pen. Some unrecognizable emotion flitted across his face. He seemed to be twitching with something. Excitement? No, triumph.

“What is it? What’d you find?” John asked, a bit excitedly.

“A connection,” Sherlock grinned, looking pleased with himself. “Of course, I can’t tell you, strictly confidential.”

“Right.”

“You sound disappointed,” Sherlock observed apathetically.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“No reason. I’m just not used to people taking an interest in what I do.”

“Oh,” John replied, unsure of what to say. Deciding he’d give Sherlock some time to work, John zipped on his coat and headed out of 221B, thinking he’d give himself a tour of campus.

***

John got turned around a lot and ended up in the Sciences building, wandering through the halls and taking cursory glances in the windows of the labs. The place was echoing, empty, and cavernous; the only sound to be heard was John’s footsteps. That is, until he heard a door creak behind him. John whipped around to see a small girl with braided mousy hair peering at him through wide eyes out of one of the lab doors.

“Hi,” she said when John caught her eye. “Hi, sorry, it’s just, you aren’t allowed to be here…”

“Sorry, I got lost,” John confessed. “Don’t mean to be rude, but why are you allowed in here?”

She blushed. “I volunteer in the labs, helping out the teachers and all.”

“I see. John Watson, nice to meet you!” John smiled, trying to put her nerves at ease.

“Molly!” And after a moment she added, “Hooper. Nice to meet you, too, just lovely, well, not, I mean, don’t think I, uh…”

John laughed. “Are you from around here? I just moved into the area.”

“Kingston Upon Thames,” Molly replied, face still flushed.

“That’s where I moved to,” John said happily. Molly smiled awkwardly

“So… what building’s your dorm in?”

“F,” she told him. “602F. Yours?”

“221B. My roommate’s a bit of a tosser.”

Molly raised her eyebrows. “What’s his name?”

“Something strange, uh, Sherlock… Holmes?”

Molly’s eyes widened and lit up. “Your roommate is Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yeah,” John said cautiously.

“Wow,” she sighed. “He’s brilliant.”

John chuckled. “He said people don’t appreciate him!”

“Oh, they don’t,” Molly’s eyes clouded over and her smile withered. “It’s just me, mostly…”

“We have that in common, then.”

After more small talk and a courteous goodbye to Molly, John left the Sciences building smiling. Molly was sweet and she seemed to be Sherlock’s opposite, other than their scientific pursuits and their preference for being alone. John had a feeling that talking to Molly would be refreshing if he had to spend the year living with Sherlock. Sherlock was clearly brilliant, but John, perceptive as ever, got the feeling he’d be hard to live with.

***

When evening came, all of the students were to go to the dining hall for their first dinner of the year and a welcome/welcome back speech, which John was sure would be tedious. The dining hall was at the center of campus and one of the biggest buildings on campus, the patio paved with crooked flagstones and the banners outside announcing the start of term. The announcement board out the front had a few coloured flyers pinned to it, but due to the time of year it was fairly sparse.

The dining hall looked like a regular cafeteria, with tables and chairs arranged through the whole room, a miniature stage at the front of the room with a podium, and the food vendors lined up at the wall. All meals were part of tuition, so all John had to do was get in line and asked for what he wanted from the menu, which tonight was a burger and fries and a boxed milk to drink. He scanned the room for a place to sit, hoping he’d see Sherlock or Molly, but before he could find either of them, he was nearly knocked over by a girl that seemed to be in a rush to get somewhere. Luckily his food stayed firmly in his hands, but she fell flat on her palms and knees. She stood up hurriedly, as if it hadn’t hurt her at all, and turned to John.

“Sorry,” she quipped. John was struck by just how… enigmatic she was. Beautiful, really, with long dark hair that fell in thick waves down to her hips, piercing blue eyes framed by dark lashes, and lips that looked like they had just been kissed.

“S’alright,” John mumbled. She nodded, smiled, and then headed on her way, her thin figure darting through the crowd and her hair flying out behind her.

“Don’t get too distracted, John,” a deep voice said from over John’s shoulder. Sherlock stood slightly behind him, coat on and hands behind his back, a hint of a smile playing on his features.

“Sherlock,” John breathed, startled.

“You look lost,” Sherlock observed in return. “You can sit at my table.”

“You have a table?” John asked a bit incredulously.

Not deigning to reply, Sherlock lead John through the busy maze that was the dining hall until they reached a far corner. They sat down together at Sherlock’s table, which was a fairly nice table in a spot up against the window. There were already two people sitting there: a boy with close-cropped light brown hair that John didn’t recognize and, to his surprise, Molly Hooper.

“Molly,” Sherlock mustered up a smile, but he was obviously taken off-guard by Molly’s presence at the table.

“I invited her, before you say anything rude,” the boy stated.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sherlock said curtly. “Everyone, this is John Watson. John, this is Lestrade and Molly.”

“I’ve met Molly,” John replied, smiling at her. Molly blushed and smiled back.

“Sorry, but, how do you know Sherlock?” Lestrade asked, brow furrowed.

“They’re roommates,” Molly supplemented.

“Oh.” His face relaxed. “I’d wondered how Sherlock had gone about making a friend!”

“We’re not friends,” Sherlock interjected, “merely colleagues. He had nowhere to sit so naturally I was inclined to help.”

Lestrade laughed openly and Molly snorted into her chicken wrap. “Yes, you’re always ‘naturally inclined’ to help people.”

John wasn’t sure if he should be insulted or not by this conversation, but he decided not to be. If he wanted to make friends with Sherlock’s friends, he’d have to put up with the new-kid-itis for a little while.


	2. Two

When John felt himself slowly regaining consciousness, he automatically knew something was wrong. His bed wasn’t this hard, not normally, and his room didn’t get this bright in the mornings. John opened his sleep-heavy eyelids and blinked in the sunlight, looking around. It slowly flooded back to him: he was at Pasterely College, and he would wake up in this room every morning for ten months.

Right now, the cold tile floors and stark morning air of the dorm didn’t seem incredibly inviting, but his comforter wrapped around him and the squishy pillow under his head certainly were. The clock read 8:45, and class started at 9, so he’d have to get up and get moving anyway, but he wanted desperately to stay in the warmth.

Rolling over with a little yawn and balling up the fabric of his comforter in his fist, John flipped onto his other side. To his surprise, the other side of the room was already quite active: his new roommate sat cross-legged on the bed, and he was staring straight at John. It was quite terrifying, to be true, that when John flipped over he immediately made eye contact with his new roommate, as it was too early to find himself staring into mesmerizing blue-green eyes, and it was certainly too early to discover his slumber had been watched.

“Finally, John,” Sherlock sighed.

“What?” John mumbled, burying his face in his pillow.

“I’ve been waiting for you to wake for nearly an hour,” Sherlock complained.

“Why didn’t you just wake me up?” John asked, although he’d have been incredibly unhappy if he’d had to wake up any earlier.

“I spoke to you but it didn’t wake you. You’re a heavy sleeper. And you snore, John, likely that muscle tension is causing your jaw to misposition itself. Forgo stress if you plan on living with me, as I’ve no time to lie around waiting for you to stop so I can sleep.”

“I’m not stressed,” John managed to say, confused, as he sat up and stretched his arms.

“Of course,” Sherlock replied, almost politely. “Pity, you aren’t going to have time for breakfast, at this rate. I’ll show you where the Arts building is and get you to English but only if you get dressed. Quickly.”

John decided not to ask how his roommate had figured out John’s first class, but grateful for the help regardless he forced himself out of bed and into his school uniform. Sherlock politely averted his eyes out the window while John changed, but the moment he was dressed Sherlock whipped around and jumping up, clapping his hands and practically tugging John out the door.

Stomach rumbling and regretting sleeping late, John followed Sherlock as fast as he could, which was not very fast as Sherlock’s legs were much longer than John’s. Sherlock showed John the Arts building and then sped off (where?) with barely a goodbye. John, left to find his classroom on his own, wandered down the halls until he found the right room and walked in, head held high, scanning for familiar faces. He noticed two: Lestrade, the boy Sherlock sat with, and the beautiful girl that had bumped into him in the dining hall.

John took a seat at the back. Everything else was taken. Luckily, he was nearby Lestrade, and John greeted him.

“Hi John. You can call me Greg, you know, but don’t tell Sherlock. He’s under the impression I don’t have a first name,” Lestrade deadpanned.

“Alright then,” John smiled. He hoped this was a step towards making friends.

The teacher, a rather wheezy elderly lady covered in cat fur called roll and began to prattle on about the year’s syllabus, and John felt himself tuning out.

***

Meanwhile, Sherlock wasn’t in class. Obviously. Because only Sherlock bloody Holmes would skip on the first day. In actuality, though, what he was doing was unlikely to get him in trouble. Mycroft had called in a few favours after asking (begging, in Sherlock’s opinion) Sherlock to go into town for him and check out a nearby house that was supposedly a safe house for illegal aliens involved in this latest terrorist scheme. Mycroft, of course, couldn’t get there himself. He didn’t like getting his hands dirty, and on top of that, he was much farther away than Sherlock was.

Of course, Sherlock had nothing to be complaining about. He’d rather be investigating for the case than listening to everyone fumble around answers and formulas in chemistry class. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Wrong. Wrong! Boring, boring, boring. Why did people have to be so vapid? Couldn’t they just use their brains and think about things for once? It was absolutely infuriating.

Sherlock stood on Charles Rd., staring up at the apparently suspicious house. It was the same, architecturally, as all the other houses on the street, small with a wraparound porch and wooden on the outside. The only difference between this house and its neighbours was its’ fading blue paint, although that hardly caused it to stand out. The other houses were painted frankly alarming shades of yellow, mint green, lilac, and pink. There was no car in the driveway, but there was a little girl’s bike leaned up against the porch. The white tires were brand new but the gears showed rust among other signs of disuse. It was there for show. Likely it had never been ridden.

The most maintained parts of the house were the shutters and the industrial lock on the door. A bit fishy. There was a plot for a garden in the front but the earth had been filled with relatively self-sustaining bushes. The lawn had been mowed recently but it seemed no one had taken the time to weed in quite awhile, and they driveway hadn’t been paved in… easily 3? 5? years. Sherlock walked up to the front door and knocked briskly, waiting for it to open. He wondered briefly if there would be a gun pointed at his head, but he quickly dismissed the thought. Too obvious for a quaint street in Nowheresville.

There was no answer. The walls were thin but Sherlock couldn’t hear anything inside, not footsteps or running water or a telly programme. It sat silent and still. Coming to the hopeful conclusion that no one was home, Sherlock tried the doorknob, which was obviously locked. The house was bound to be quite secure. The only way he could possibly get in was through the combination for the garage.

It wasn’t hard to decode. Sherlock punched in the numbers and the garage wrenched itself open like it hadn’t been accessed in years. When it was all the way up, Sherlock walked inside and hit the button so it would close behind him. There was a door leading into the house that he found to be unlocked.

The door lead him into a small hallway. The white tile was otherwise clean save for muddy footprints in both directions, all dry, been there for a while. This is it, Sherlock thought to himself, getting excited. Time to explore.

The house was bigger than it looked from the outside, with small rooms tucked away in strange places like the afterthoughts of a casual architect. The stairs were creaky and most everything was covered in a thin layer of dust. The last anyone had been here was two to three months ago. Plumbing was on but there wasn’t any electricity. No telly or any other lasting technology. Not many personal possessions, only a few articles of clothing and similar sentimental relics left behind. By accident? Maybe, if they had been leaving in a rush. On purpose perhaps if they were planning to return. The latter was more likely. Based on the items lying about the house, the last people who’d stayed here were an older man and a young woman, likely a father and daughter. The father had been in poor health and the daughter was taking care of him. It was probable that the father, not the daughter, was part of the direct terrorist threat and that his daughter was simply desperate.

It was obvious that Mycroft had what he was looking for. This was the safe house, no doubt about it. He’d be pleased to hear that they’d gained another upper hand, but likely not so pleased to hear that the house had been empty for months. That was more disheartening.

Sherlock left the house after making sure he hadn’t left a trace of himself and called Mycroft.

“Mycroft Holmes.”

“Yes, I know that,” Sherlock snapped impatiently.

There was a pause at the other end of the line and Sherlock could swear he heard his brother audibly sigh. “Oh, it’s you, Sherlock.”

“I’ve just been to the house on Charles Road. It’s definitely your safehouse.” The way he had said it, trailing off the slightest bit at the end, was not lost on Mycroft.

“But?”

“But no one’s been there in two or three months, apart from me. I originally thought they might’ve had plans to come back, but I’m not so sure anymore. Her father’s illness is too critical at this point.”

“I don’t need the logistics,” Mycroft huffed. “Thank you, Sherlock, truly. Although I can’t say I apologize for making you miss school. I know how tedious that can be.”

“It’s not so bad this year,” Sherlock commented offhandedly, without thinking.

“Oh?” Mycroft’s interest was piqued. “How so?”

Sherlock thought about it. In truth, the year did seem more optimistic, and it seemed like it could be more bearable. His roommate actually didn’t hate him. He could coexist with John without the inevitable eventual snap (the one where his roommate finally lost it and slugged him right in the face). He’d be able to work, finally, without a roommate constantly complaining about him on the phone right in front of his face.

“My roommate,” Sherlock explained, “is not as dreadful as they usually are. Thrillingly, of course, still numbingly ignorant, but he didn’t seem homicidal upon meeting me. If all things continue to go as well as they’re currently going, I may even be able to work with him.”

“That sounds lovely, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied. “Simply lovely. Do try not to get too attached, brother dear? I’d hate to see you hurt.”

“I want that in writing,” Sherlock said promptly before ending the call. Mycroft, condescending and nasty as he was, could be protective of Sherlock to a fault, and it was rather annoying when Sherlock received advice from him. He always wanted to do the opposite of what Mycroft advised him to do, naturally, he was so adverse to his brother’s life advice. A business card, he decided, would need to be made. Mycroft Holmes, motivational speaker and inspirational life coach. Award-winning author of self-help books “Do Try Not to Get too Attached”, and the sequel, “Emotions are Foul Please Keep Them Away From Me”. Mycroft would be absolutely chuffed to hear Sherlock had begun giving those out in town.

Of course, as much as Sherlock hated to admit it, Mycroft often proved to be right. He had always warned Sherlock against doing childish things, and Sherlock had done them, and he had gotten hurt. It never happened to Mycroft, getting hurt, because he was frozen. Kept all his emotions locked away, aside from the occasional melted moment of love for his little brother, and he encouraged Sherlock to do the same. There had been too many times when Sherlock had come home from kindergarten, face screwed up and red from trying not to cry, asking his Mummy why the other kids didn’t want to play with him. She always said, just be yourself. Father always said, be nice to kids. Don’t say rude things about them even if it’s true. How could Sherlock possibly be expected to do both? Sherlock began to admire Mycroft over the years for his strength and invulnerability. And if the only way Sherlock could be happy was to admit he was better than other kids and stop trying to befriend them, then he would do that. Mycroft was right, after all. Emotions were rather useless. Would they stop this terrorist organization? No. Of course not.


End file.
